Once In A Blue Moon
by SGE
Summary: It's the party season, but what will George and Mitchell be doing on New Year's Eve, particularly with that full moon in the sky, and uninvited guests knocking on the front door? This is set about 18 months before the start of season one.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is a bit fluffier than I would normally write, but after seeing the full moon on the 31st, I couldn't resist! Please excuse the astronomical artistic licence of moving it to a couple of years ago. Fits the story better. There's the occasional bit of bad language in here, but nothing to write home about. This is not part of the Blood in the Night stories.

**Disclaimer: **Being Human and all its lovely characters belong to Toby Whithouse. No infringement is intended, and certainly no financial benefit is being made. It's just a final celebration before the new season starts!

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"George, do you have any plans for New Year's Eve?" Mitchell called through a mouthful of toast. He was lying on the couch with the telly on, a small plate held in one hand with the edge of it resting on his chest. Crumbs festooned the front of his grey t-shirt and clung sparsely to the wool of his fingerless gloves.

"What?"

George's voice wavered through to him from the kitchen. God only knew what he was doing in there. Mitchell had lost count of the times he'd told the werewolf that he didn't need to do so much housework when he was staying, but he'd ceased chiding him. He just knew now that whenever George turned up on his doorstep looking sheepish and saying that he was 'between jobs' or had 'lost his room at the hostel', it preceded a period of cleanliness and neatness that Mitchell was quite unfamiliar with.

He was, however, starting to quite like it.

"New Year's," he called back. "I was wondering if you had any plans or anything."

He took another bite of his toast. Maybe he was washing the floor again, though he hadn't heard any of the usual mutters of discontent over the fact that Mitchell didn't own a mop.

He waited for a response, but there was silence. Then he heard a scuffle, and George appeared at the door wearing yellow rubber gloves that glistened with moisture and began to drip onto the carpet.

Definitely washing the floor.

"New Year's?" George repeated, sounding confused and a little disdainful.

"Yeah," Mitchell said. "Parties, drinking, fireworks. You know. New Year's Eve?"

"Yes, Mitchell I know what it is," George protested. "What I'm wondering is why you're asking me about it?"

"Because it's two days away. I mean, I understand why you didn't want to celebrate Christmas and all that, being Jewish, but everyone gets to party and bring in the New Year don't they? It's reasonably non-denominational."

"You're a vampire," George pointed out.

Now it was Mitchell's turn to be confused. "I know," he said.

"You – celebrate New Year's Eve like norm- like other people do?" George quickly corrected himself.

Mitchell laughed. "Usually, What did you expect?"

"Well, don't vampires – I mean – you celebrate human festivals? You don't have your own?"

"Like what, bite-fest?"

George's face took on a grumpy expression at being teased, and his pushed his glasses up with a wet and rubber-covered finger before turning on his heal and going back to the kitchen.

Mitchell was amused. He recognised the face as George's 'I'm trying to have a serious conversation here, and you're making fun of me' one, and unfortunately, it just made him want to tease him more. George had elicited that response from him a lot in the 6 months or so they'd known each other, and like the housework, it was something that Mitchell was not only getting used to, but getting to like as well. Having an easy relationship with someone, an actual, genuine friendship that didn't involve violence or sycophantism or constant verbal games, was so incredibly refreshing, that every time George did appear on his doorstep and ask to stay for a couple of days, he'd been not only willing but eager to have him as a guest. There was just something about him, about the two of them, that seemed to gel, that just worked. It was – well – it was nice.

Still smiling, Mitchell got to his feet and followed George into the kitchen, padding onto the linoleum, his bare feet sticking slightly with each step. George had returned to his task of scrubbing the floor, and was on his knees beside a bucket of steaming, soapy water.

"You didn't answer my question," Mitchell said, putting his plate down beside the sink.

"What question?" George retorted, still clearly grumpy.

"Do you have any plans for New Year's?"

"No I don't," George responded shortly.

"Why don't we go out then? Go to a few pubs, get pissed."

"No thank you."

"Ah come on George!" he exclaimed. "Why not? You're a werewolf, not a monk."

George glared at him over his glasses. He didn't like the 'W' word.

"It's obviously escaped your attention that it's a full moon on New Year's Eve," he said, dipping the cloth back into the bucket. "I will be otherwise engaged."

"Really? A full moon?" Mitchell was surprised, and disappointed he realized as well. "That can't happen very often. Once in a blue moon you might even say!" He smiled at his own joke.

"Well it is a blue moon as it happens," George dropped in.

"It's a what?"

"A blue moon, the thirteenth full moon in a year. Really Mitchell, when are you going to buy a proper mop for this place," he complained suddenly. "It's almost impossible to get the floor clean like this."

"I'll put it on my New Year's resolutions list," the vampire said. "Right along with trying not to eat people."

That earned him another dirty look. "You shouldn't make jokes about it," George said stiffly. "It isn't funny."

"Alright, alright," Mitchell held up his hands, and changed the subject. "So where are you going to transform?"

George sighed and sat back on his heals, dropping the cloth back into the bucket. "I've found this wood," he said. "It's outside town, pretty isolated, should be quite safe."

"You're – planning to transform outside?" Mitchell said aghast.

George was confused. "I usually do," he pointed out.

"Yes, but George it's like minus seven out there at the moment," Mitchell glanced out of the window. A heavy frost hung on the trees and walls, while an uneven layer of ice had formed on the pavements, making walking a challenge at best. "You'll freeze to death."

George shrugged. "It'll be cold," he agreed. "But it's nothing I haven't faced before."

"Can't you change in here?" Mitchell suggested.

George's expression turned to one of horror. "No!" he all but shrieked. "It'll destroy the place!"

"Well we'll lock you in the bathroom or something."

"And you can afford a new bathroom suite can you?" George asked primly.

"You couldn't destroy a bathroom suite," Mitchell mocked.

"It took down three lampposts one night," George told him.

"Or maybe you could," Mitchell corrected himself. "Lampposts?"

"Mm," George went after the cloth again. "I read it in the paper a couple of days later. They had what one witness described as the appearance of having been chewed."

"Man," Mitchell was impressed. "Okay well, outdoors then. But you're still going to freeze when you wake up."

"I'll be fine."

"How about I come and find you in the morning? Bring you a warm drink or something. I think I've actually got a flask sitting around here somewhere," he looked around the high, dark blue walls of the kitchen, searching out shelves and the top of appliances for the elusive flask. He was sure one of his friends had left one after some party.

"No, thank you."

Mitchell shook his head. "You've really got to stop being so stubborn and let someone into your life for a change," he suggested. "It's lonely, and damned cold, being out on your own."

George continued to wash the floor, ignoring him as he inched his way further towards the door.

"Okay," Mitchell conceded, "I won't come and find you. But how about I wait for you somewhere, and you can come to me? Some car park or other. Should be fine as long as I don't get picked up for dogging."

George glanced up at that one to find Mitchell grinning again.

He sighed again. "Why not," he said.

"Cool," Mitchell nodded. "We'll fix time and place before you go out, and I'll be there."

"Fine," George said in reluctant agreement.

Mitchell grinned. "That's settled then," he said, turning to go.

"Mitchell," George stopped him.

"Yeah?" The vampire turned back to find George staring up at him intently.

"Thank you," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

"So what are you going to be doing tonight? You never said."

Mitchell had done them a proper meal for once rather than his usual making do with whatever cereal-related products he could find kicking around the kitchen. George was carefully cutting up his lamb chops with a knife and fork, steadfastly ignoring the raging urges that Mitchell knew would be pressing him to pick the thing up and gnaw at it like an animal. Mitchell knew because he had those urges himself and had given into them quite cheerfully.

He licked grease from his fingers and considered the question, shrugging. "Dunno," he said. "Probably not a lot. Watch the box. Have a drink."

"You're not going to see those friends of yours," George said, picking up a small piece of meat and putting it neatly into his mouth.

"No," he said softly.

"I thought you liked hanging out with them, with the other vampires?" George asked him, sounding surprised.

"I do," Mitchell admitted, putting the chop down. "Sometimes. But they'll be in party mode tonight, and their parties tend to end in human kebabs rather than the ones you get at the takeaway."

George paled slightly at that.

"I'm tying to get away from that world," Mitchell went on. "If I spend too much time with them, I'll be sucked back into it, and that way of living. I'd rather wake up without blood on my hands tomorrow."

"Mm," George agreed. "Me too." He pushed some green beans around his plate wistfully.

Mitchell picked up his glass of red wine and considered him. He could sense the bubbling energy emanating from him, and was surprised he was acting so calm. But then, this was hardly a new sensation for him now. Yes, in vampire terms, George was a baby, a blubbering infant barely aware of his powers and the possibilities. But werewolves were more human than that. They retained that sense of time passing that vampires lost. So to George, 12 months meant 12 long, painful, heartrending months. Mitchell had barely felt the last year going by. Had barely felt then last 20. He felt like he was hovering, outside time existing endlessly rather than living.

George felt his scrutiny and picked up his own glass self-consciously. "Thank you for cooking," he said, taking a drink.

"Don't sound so surprised," Mitchell said, smiling again. "I can cook."

"When you want to, obviously," George said.

"Toast and cereal's easier," Mitchell explained. "After 100 years of preparing meals, sometimes I just can't see the point any more."

"What's the best meal you've ever eaten," George asked, curious. "And I don't mean in terms of people," he added quickly.

"Oh, uh, let me see now." Mitchell put his glass down. "I had this meal once in London. Herrick had taken us to this incredible restaurant to celebrate something."

"When was this?"

"Mid-nineties I think," Mitchell guessed. "I remember it was summer, quite hot. And we had this meal that was just – incredible. Food just kept coming at us, and wine that matched each dish. Oh, it was – yeah – I remember that one."

George smiled faintly. "I used to like going out," he said. "I used to take Julia to these Japanese places. She really liked sashimi." His eyes misted over faintly, as they nearly always did when he mentioned his ex-fiancée, still an open wound in his soul.

Mitchell tried to steer him away from it. "Raw fish?" he made a face. "Could never see the point myself."

"It's quite good," George disagreed. "But is has to be fresh. And warm is better I think."

"Warm? Raw warm fish?"

"Not too warm, but just right," George explained. "With fresh wasabi and a little bit of soy sauce." He smiled at the memory of the flavours.

"I never got into Japanese food," Mitchell said, feeling the mood change slightly, as George checked his watch. "It never really felt like I was eating. More nibbling."

"Mm," George said, clearly distracted now after seeing the time, and tapping his hand on the table.

"Do you have to go?"

"A few minutes," he said.

"And you're sure you don't want me to drive you?"

He shook his head. "There's a bus that'll take me most of the way. There's one in about 20 minutes down the road. It'll be fine."

"And you remember where we're meeting tomorrow?"

George rolled his eyes. "Yes Mitchell, we've gone through it 5 times. The car park at the monument at 8am. At least there won't be anyone there at that time on New Year's Day. Unless they haven't gone home yet of course."

"And maybe – if this works out – we could make it a regular thing," Mitchell suggested offhand.

George's face hardened, and he got to his feet, lifting his plate from the table and walking over to dump it beside the kitchen sink.

"Well why not?" Mitchell demanded, bemused by this attitude and his continual efforts to deflect every offer of help the vampire put his way.

"Because…" George said, turning and obviously having problems finding the right words.

"Because what?"

"Because it makes it real!" he exclaimed.

"What?"

George looked down, taking off his glasses and folding the legs over carefully. "I don't – this thing," he tried to explain, looking back up at the vampire. "I don't want it in my life Mitchell. I know that sounds stupid and I know you don't understand, but I want to go through my life not thinking about what's going to happen every 28 days, and if I plan for it, then I'm thinking about it." Mitchell was silent, taking it in. "Just – let me do this my way. Please. I have to try to find a way to deal with it on my own. It's my curse. Not yours."

Mitchell nodded slowly, not understanding but accepting, anyway, that this was George's choice and George's life. And who was he, a hundred year old immortal as he was, to pass judgement.

"Okay," he said.

George smiled back, grateful not to have to argue the point further. "Here," he said, taking a couple of steps forward and handing his glasses to Mitchell. "You can hang onto these for me until the morning. I've lost a couple of pairs now, and you wouldn't believe how much they charge for glasses these days!" As Mitchell took them from him, another thought seemed to strike George. "Could you keep this for me as well?" he asked, pulling his Star of David over his head and holding it out. "I'd really hate to lose it."

Mitchell felt a slight internal pinch at the symbol of faith, feeling the light burning into him. But it was a passing sensation, like stubbing your toe: sore and then gone in a matter of seconds. It was curious; every other religious symbol he'd ever come across had felt like a searing bolt of lightning into his soul.

He held out his hand and George dropped the pendant into it, coiling the chain down on top. He closed his cold fingers around it, feeling the heat but remaining unharmed.

"Sure," he said, nodding and feeling more confident by the second. Then he added. "You're going to miss your bus."

"Shit!" George intoned, looking at his watch and dashing out into the hallway to find his coat. By the time Mitchell had made it out there as well, he'd also stuck a woolly hat and some gloves on.

"See you on the flip side," Mitchell said, as he made for the door.

"Thanks!" George called, and banged the door behind him as he bolted for the street.


	3. Chapter 3

Leaving the bus shelter far behind, George had walked out into the wood, already feeling the bite of the cold on his feet and cheeks, and wishing he could afford a better coat. It was cold, really cold. The fallen leaves on the hard ground had frozen white with heavy frost and they cracked and broke as he trod on them, the noise sounding unbelievably loud in that stillness. He could hear an owl calling perhaps a mile away to the north, but apart from that, his blundering feet seemed to be the only sound in the world right now.

He wondered how far he should walk. Not that it mattered really. He'd once woken up a good 7 miles from where he'd started, so it was clear that the werewolf could cover ground when it wanted to. He suspected that on that particular occasion, it had been hunting sheep, as he'd found strands of wool caught under his nails, and couldn't stomach lamb for a good few weeks afterwards.

Still, out in this wood, he looked to be as far away from any human habitations as possible for this area. He couldn't do much to stop the beast from killing, but he could at least try to remove the temptation. One day, of course, his luck was going to run out, and he was going to wake up to find pieces of red Gortex underneath his nails, and an entirely new and unpleasant taste in his mouth, but like the transformations themselves, he didn't want to think about that. If it happened, he would just have to deal with it. Until then, it was as far into the middle of the forest as he could go, and praying for mercy. They were the only tools he had.

Looking around (he wasn't sure for what since his wolf-enhanced hearing would have picked up anything at all that was there) he stopped in a small clearing. It would do. It would have to; the change wasn't far off now, a couple of minutes only.

But when it came to it, it was so cold that he couldn't bring himself to remove his clothing. He breathed in, feeling his heart beating faster in anticipation, his skin beginning to itch, a cold sweat of fear forming on his forehead. Oh God it hurt, this – thing – this abomination. He was terrified of it, what happened, and as the seconds ticked by, the terror grew. It was coming and he couldn't stop it. Now it didn't matter how clever he was or how many university degrees he had. Something dreadful was about to rip through his body and he was entirely powerless to do anything about it.

He looked up at the stars, and slowly took his jacket off, feeling himself begin to shake as he shed the layer. Then he pulled off his jumper, still looking up, eyes to heaven as if pleading for this all to be a dream. His fingers were barely working when he got to his shirt, and his breath came out in short, misted streams as he panted against the cold.

This wasn't fair, tonight of all nights, when most of the world was celebrating. Even those unfortunate enough to be at work would stop, shake hands with their colleagues, share a kiss even, pass round an elicit bottle of something alcoholic. They did what people did to welcome in the New Year. And where was he? Shivering in his boots in a forest, miles from human comfort or companionship or cheer. He felt a single tear slide down his cheek as self-pity consumed him, and he thought how wonderful the world was going to look in a couple of hours when midnight struck and people set off their fireworks to celebrate. He wondered if the wolf would see them. What it would think.

His eyes opened wide. Oh God! How was the wolf going to react to fireworks!

Then his heart came to shuddering, excruciating stop in his chest, and his own personal nightmare began once again.


	4. Chapter 4

Mitchell had finished the first bottle of wine in fairly short order after George had left. He'd staggered through to the kitchen to retrieve a second bottle and find the corkscrew (in a drawer that he simply left open behind him) and staggered back to the couch with his prize.

The TV was on, blaring out some cheerful holiday-themed episode of something that he wasn't really watching, and he put his feet up on the table as he tried to prise the cork from the bottle with as little effort as possible. Despite the chill of the night, the window in the living room was open letting in blasts of cold air that ballooned out the half-closed curtains. Outside, he could hear people going about the business of getting drunk and presuming they were having a good time (because who really cared when you couldn't remember in the morning) and the odd-early firework going bang in the distance.

The programme had come to an end by the time he got the cork out, and switched to a brief news summary that Mitchell ignored as he rolled a cigarette and lit it, before pouring himself another sizable glass of red. As he got himself comfortable again, the overly cheerful face of a weather presenter burst into view.

"…_and for anyone heading out for those New Year's revelries, remember to wrap up warmly. It's going to be a cold one out there tonight with temperatures staying sub-zero in many places, plenty of clear skies, and a heavy frost over much of the country…"_

He took a drag of his cigarette and flicked his gaze down to George's glasses and pendant, which he'd left sitting on the table. Frowning, he took a drink of wine and tried to distract himself by going through the channels to see if there was anything on at all, anywhere worth watching.

He jumped slightly as there was an overly loud knock on the front door. Curious, he set down his glass and got to his feet. Probably just one of his neighbours, drunk and either locked out, or possibly inviting him to a party.

Mitchell made his way to the front door, cigarette still between his fingers. He pulled it open.

The woman on the other side could only be described as stunningly beautiful. Her long reddish hair curled lazily about her shoulders, while her pale, flawless skin, perfectly set off her bright red lips and dark-rimmed eyes. She was holding a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a half-bottle of whisky in the other.

"Happy New Year, sweetie!" she cried, surging forward and enveloping him in a hug, made awkward by his surprise and what she was holding.

"Suzie?" he exclaimed, pushing her back slightly. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in Chicago?"

"Too damn cold at this time of the year," the woman told him, pulling back and smiling exuberantly. I flew back mid-December and went to see a few friends up north. But I could hardly come back to Blighty and avoid seeing dear old John Mitchell. Well? Are you going to ask me in or not?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Mitchell stammered. "Come in."

He moved back to let her through and she tottered in on heels that few would dare to attempt on a night when the pavements were so icy.

"Ooh," she said, moving into the flat and taking a look round. "It's – bijou."

Mitchell grinned. "You can say small, y'know," he shut the door. "I won't be offended."

"Herrick couldn't find you somewhere better?" Suzie continued her self-tour, walking through into the living room and taking in the single glass on the table, the blaring telly, and the pile of bedding and rucksack in the corner.

Mitchell followed her in. "He could," he said. "But we've – not really been speaking recently. I'm – taking a break."

Suzie's brow furrowed in comical confusion. "A break from what?" she asked, putting down her gifts on the table and shrugging her way out of her long dark-purple coat.

"From stuff," he said cryptically. "It's complicated."

"Well," she said, taking a few steps towards him. "We don't need to worry about that do we. Celebrating alone tonight?" she indicated the glass.

"Yeh, I've got a friend staying but he's out, so it's just me tonight."

"A friend?"

"Yes."

"You allow humans to sleep here _and_ call them friends?"

He sighed, silently cheering that she hadn't picked up on George being anything other than human. "Yes, Suzie, I have human friends. And no, you can't feed on him. It's not that sort of friendship."

"Spoilsport," she said, jokingly, and turning, walked over and slumped down on the couch. "So," she said. "Are you going to pour me a glass of that inexpensive red wine, or am I going to have to drink it from the bottle."

Mitchell considered her. Suzie was a trouble maker, she always had been, ever since he'd met her in the 70s, where she'd taken on the guise of a flower-power child to lure stoned hippies into her camper van where they had a trip they never came back from. She dropped in from time to time, passing through every 5 years or so, always moving on, never staying more than a couple of days. Having her here was bound to cause problems, but – well – at least they could have a drink, talk about old times maybe. She wouldn't necessarily want to stay. She did, after all, have loads of friends in Bristol where she cut quite a dash amongst the resident vampires.

In fact, being friends with her and as close as they were gave him a certain amount of kudos. Half the guys he knew would give their fangs to be curling up on a couch at New Year's with Suzie Blane. He could hardly turn down the opportunity.

"Alright," he said, quickly fetching her a glass from the kitchen, and returning to find her going through his LP collection. She stuck on something by the Stones, as he clicked off the TV and poured her a drink.

She re-took her seat and held up her glass. "To old friends," she said.

"Old friends," he agreed.

And they drank.


	5. Chapter 5

When Mitchell opened his eyes he wished that he was dead. Then he remembered he was dead and it hadn't improved his life any to date.

His head was pounding, and he felt incredibly sick, a fact that wasn't being improved by the mad spinning of the room.

He shut his eyes again, groaning softly, and wondering what the point was of being a supernatural if you still got damned hangovers.

Then he felt movement in the bed beside him.

"Mm," came a voice. "Morning."

Oh God.

He cracked his eyes open again, and rolled over. Suzie's red hair was splayed across his pillowcase, her face no less pretty in the harsh light of morning than it had been in the wine-hazy dimness of last evening. She was smiling as well, clearly not feeling half as bad as he was.

He put a hand to his head, trying to remember what he'd ended up drinking, and what had happened during the rest of the evening. It was all pretty much a blur, however, and he resolved not to think about it too much, clocking it up to another night that he'd rather forget, in a long, long line of similar experiences.

"Quite a night," she said, blinking her beautiful eyes, and stretching. "Mm, but I'm hungry. What time did you say that friend of yours was getting back?"

Cold fear stabbed through him, and he flipped over quickly. The clock on the bedside table said 9.05.

"Shit!" He yanked back the covers and leapt out of bed, ignoring the sickening lurch that accompanied the movement, and the increase in the pounding of his headache. He'd left George out in the cold on the one day when his friend had actually agreed to let him help him, on the one day when he really needed him. "Shit, shit!" he pulled on clothes.

"What's the matter?" Suzie wondered, sitting up, confusion clouding her features.

"Nothing – it's somewhere I have to be," he said, his t-shirt muffling his response as he dragged it over his head.

"It's New Year's Day," she protested. "No one else in the world will be even conscious yet."

"Yeh," he said, finding his socks and trying to balance as he pulled them on. "I need you to go."

"What?"

"I'm sorry, it's just, I need to go out and I need you gone. I'm really sorry."

"You've got to be kidding me!" she exclaimed, predictably angry.

"I know I know," he said, finally getting into his socks and looking for his shoes and then stepping in to them. "But this is something I have to do."

He looked back over at her and saw her incredulity as she sat there, duvet pulled up to her chest.

"Look," he came over. "I know it's hard to understand, and last night was – incredible," he said hoping he was right. "But I've got some stuff going on right now, and I just need you to understand."

She softened slightly. "Can I stay for a coffee?"

He grimaced, looking at the clock. 9.07. "I really need to go," he said.

"Then go," she said, exasperated. "I'll get dressed and be out by the time you're back. With your new human friend, I'm guessing, who's obviously more important to you than I am. Don't worry. I won't take anything. Not like there's anything to take."

"Suzie," he leaned in and smacked a quick kiss on her. "You're amazing."

"Yeh, well, don't forget it. And you owe me."

"I really do," he called, glancing around and pulling on his jacket, then making for the living room. He grabbed a handful of spare clothes out of George's bag, and the blanket he used to sleep with on the couch. Then, as an after thought, he grabbed the almost empty bottle of whisky, which was lying on its side on the couch, and stuck it in his back pocket.

By the time he'd made it back out into the hall, Suzie had emerged from the bedroom and was standing wrapped in the duvet looking more beautiful than ever.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "I really did have a good night."

He grabbed his keys off the hall table and opened the front door.

"Mitchell," she called after him. He turned. "See you around," she said, smiling.


	6. Chapter 6

Mitchell left Bristol at the maximum speed he thought he could get away with. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over by the police at this point in his life, but at least the streets were clear and there was not another car in sight as he nosed through the suburbs and out onto one of the main A-roads.

The clock on the dashboard read 9.34, and he eased the accelerator down another notch or so, watching the speedometer creep up to 40. Another few miles and he'd be out of the city, and from there, it would only take him 15 minutes or so to reach his destination.

Around him, frost lay thick on unused cars, and one or two dog walkers could be seen faithfully trudging through the icy conditions with their faithful companions. God. He hadn't thought about dog walkers. What if George had been discovered already? Well, maybe that was a good thing. Naked and arrested was better than naked and dead, surely. He glanced at the clock and pushed the accelerator down again.

How could he have been so stupid? It was one night, one night when all he had to do was stay sober enough to get up in the morning. And what had he done? Given into temptation as always. It didn't matter what it was, when it came to vampires, he got sucked back into that world with barely a moral tremor. Why was it so hard? After all, this condition had left him with free will. He could make a choice, he could always make a choice. Why did he always choose them and whatever they were offering? He thought being friends with George might have changed that, but obviously it wasn't enough. Maybe he needed more. Maybe he needed to get a job or something.

As the national speed limit sign came up before him, he roared the engine and stuck it into top gear, which was only four for that model, but it could still reach a good speed on a flat road like this.

9.44.

His grip on the wheel tightened as he sped along, hoping he wasn't going to encounter any black ice and go spinning off the road. Along with being picked up by the police, crashing wasn't high up on his wish list. Not when he had something so important to do.

But maybe this in itself was a sign that he was changing. In years gone past, he'd done equally stupid, selfish things and laughed them off without barely a thought. Now, he was filled with guilt. He felt fear for someone else, was worrying about a werewolf of all people. It wasn't a vampire thing to do.

He smiled grimly. Once in a blue moon he'd been given the chance to do something that made him feel almost human again, even if the downside of that was that he felt desperately wretched.

He was so distracted by the thought that he almost missed the turnoff, and slammed on the brakes, skidding, the back end of the car fighting to pull round against the lack of traction on the ice. Then he yanked the wheel and took the car around the corner, barely making the turning, and grinding the gears as he looked for second.

The track to the car park was in a much worse state than the main road, and his tyres found almost no purchase at all as he bounced them determinedly along over the humps and bumps.

The car park itself was like a sheet of ice, and he slid several feet after he put on the brakes, abandoning the car nowhere near any of the empty designated spaces. He pushed open the driver's door, grabbed the clothes from the seat beside him, and slid his way upright.

He looked around, scanning the white surroundings.

"George!" he yelled, seeing nothing. He slammed the door shut behind him. "George!" he yelled again, starting to gingerly walk his way over to the grassy verge.

There was no sign of the werewolf. Cursing inwardly, Mitchell raised his nose and sniffed, scenting the air for that distinctive smell which he'd become so familiar with. And there. There was definitely a hint of it. He was here. Somewhere.

He sniffed again, turning and looking round. "George?" he called again. Sniff.

Then he noticed a small structure over by some trees to his right. There was an information board about the site, and behind it, what looked like a toilet block. He sniffed, and then began to run towards it.

Circling round the rather dilapidated building, he stopped as he came to the gents end, stinky as always, and found the door had been smashed open. Clearly this place was locked during the night for fear of encouraging a seedier clientele to the car park. But the lock was in splinters and the door sitting ajar.

Cautiously, he pushed it open and made his way inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the half-light. And there was George.

As well as breaking in the main door, he'd also obviously broken into a storeroom, and had made something of a nest for himself in the corner out of paper towels. And there he lay, wrapped in someone's filthy overalls, asleep.

"George," Mitchell hurried towards him, astounded by his ingenuity and wondering how the hell he'd managed to do all this in sub-zero temperatures, without clothes, and still recovering from a transformation. Maybe the wolf gave him the strength to survive past usual human limits, and that coupled with his intelligence, had saved him from freezing to death in the cold New Year's morning.

"George!" he said commandingly, kneeling down beside him, and putting a hand out to shake him by the shoulder.

His friend's eyes opened heavily, and he shuddered instantly against the cold. "Mitchell?" he whispered.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" Mitchell said. "Here, I brought you some clothes." George struggled to sit up, his skin a whitish blue colour. "Here." Mitchell wrapped a shirt around him and watched as George awkwardly, and with frustrating slowness, attempted to push his arms into the sleeves. But the buttons were beyond his numb fingers, and the vampire had to oblige.

"Thank – you," his whispered, still shivering violently, but looking down at Mitchell with genuine gratitude on his face as he did up the buttons.

"What for?" Mitchell said, throwing the blanket he'd brought around his shoulders, and helping him into the jeans he'd brought. "Leaving you out here to freeze to death? I slept in, George, I let you down. I'm so sorry."

George grimaced. "But where are you?" he stuttered.

"What do you mean?" Mitchell said, realizing with a sinking heart that he'd brought socks, but no shoes for George. Ah well. He pulled the socks on over his icy feet.

"You're here," George explained, pulling the blanket as close as he could. "You came."

Mitchell was still confused. "You could have died," he insisted.

George smiled faintly, feeling a little warmth flowing back into him. He wasn't alone any more on a cold, tiled floor. "But I didn't," he said quietly.

"Well, let's talk about this later, shall we," the vampire said, reaching over and putting an arm around his shoulders to help him to his feet.

The walk to the car was stumblingly slow, as George's cold and cramped legs struggled with the terrain, and Mitchell fought to hold him upright. But they made it in the end, and Mitchell deposited his friend on the passenger seat, before running back round to the driver's side, and firing up the engine to get the heat going.

George sat there, shivering and defrosting as the warm air blew around him. Mitchell cursed inwardly that he hadn't spent more time looking for that damn flask so that he had something warm to give him. But still, he was already looking better, some of the white fading from his cheeks to be replaced with a faintly ruddy glow.

"Are you alright?" Mitchell asked him, seeing his face tighten a little.

"The feeling's coming back to my fingers," George explained, clumsily rubbing his hands together. "Ah, that smarts!" he stuck his hands in his armpits. "It was cold out there."

"Yeah," Mitchell agreed, finally feeling some of the tension that he'd been holding in his gut start to dissipate. And he breathed out. It would be okay. They were okay. By some stupid luck and some fate that seemed to want the two of them together, they'd made it through the night.

Relief after guilt was a wonderful thing, as was finding out that the world wasn't quite as bad as you thought it was. Was that human as well? Optimism? Blind faith maybe? He didn't know, but what he did know, was that he liked it.

Then he caught sight of something on the floor by George's feet, and he reached down to grab it with just the hint of a smile on his lips.

"What are you doing?" George wondered, as he re-surfaced holding the bottle of whisky in his hand. He offered it to the werewolf. "Are you kidding?" George said, clearly feeling better. "I've got hypothermia. The last thing I need is alcohol!"

"Just, take a drink, will you, George," Mitchell said, unscrewing the lid and handing it over.

"Why?"

Mitchell smiled broadly, thinking that maybe the next few months were going to mean some big changes in both their lives. Might as well celebrate the small victories while they had the chance.

"Happy New Year," he said.


End file.
